My mom likes doing all this domestic crap. She actually LOVES to iron and sew and cook and clean and all that. I never understood it. I would look at her and go, "wow, why are you so happy to be ironing a damn shirt of Dad's?" She would iron all our bedsheets too. Just wow. Anyway, she had a Singer sewing machine on her desk in the office. When I was about four, I became really fascinated by it, how fast the needle went up and down, how magical it seemed to be that she could feed something in there and BUP BUP BUP BUP BUP BUP, it would be sewn together. She warned me all the time not to touch it. Well, we know what happens with warnings. She was off in the kitchen, kitchening, and I was in the office, reading a book snuggled in the windowseat. I looked at the sewing machine, set my book down, walked over and sat in her big desk chair in front of it. My feet couldn't touch the sewing pedal on the floor. There was a piece of bright red fabric with bright red thread in the machine, and I remember seeing the shiny silver needle against it. Somehow, my fingers made their way to the shiny needle and my foot to the pedal.
I let out what my mother said was a blood-curdling cry. The needle had gone into the top of the nail of my left hand index finger, pretty far down, too. I remember pain pain pain and being frightened and also scared that I was going to now get in trouble for touching the machine. My mom came running, of course, saw me crying and freaking, still attached to the machine by the needle. She released the needle from the machine, and I remember crying even harder seeing the damn thing sticking out of my finger. Eventually, she pulled it out, I lived, but distrusted sewing machines forever.
Fast forward ten years or so to 8th Grade. Shop and Home Ec are required in Junior High. I had already passed Shop, even though I put the roof on the bottom of the damn birdhouse I had to make. The cooking part of Home Ec was done, and went OK despite an incident of strawberry throwing, but next was sewing. ON MACHINES. To make it infinitely worse, oh yes listen to THIS, we had to sew something to wear to an ALL-SCHOOL FASHION SHOW. Holy shit, NO. OH NO NO NO.
The bird-faced evil Home Ec teacher quickly surmised that I had a "poor attitude" and suggested I sew the easiest project she had, a powder blue t-shirt. I very begrudgingly started to work on it, and it was obvious that I was lame beyond lame. As the semester passed, I found many reasons not to come to Home Ec class to work on the t-shirt: as editor of the school newspaper, there was SO (sew) much to do yes yes; sick (cough cough); sunny day (byeeeeee); extra band practice; cute boy in study hall alert. ANYTHING. Well, Home Ec Bitch decided enough was enough. One day, she came up to my math class and announced that she was pulling me out to finish the shirt. This was unheard of, to pull someone to Home Ec from an academic class. But she got her way, plunked me in the empty white Home Ec room, just me, a sewing machine, and that stupid t-shirt. She warned me not to leave until it was done. Furious, I started to sew on the demented garment. When it seemed like it was appropriately patched with thread, I took it out from the machine and looked it over. All the hems were pulled and uneven, the scoop neck was saggy, and one arm was significantly longer than the other. There was no way in HELL I was going to wear that thing in some fashion show in front of everyone, and I wasn't about to try to redo it all either. I furtively glanced around to see that no one was coming, and took Powder Blue Frankenshirt into the large Home Ec storage closet, mashed it into a tight little ball, and shoved it deep into the far corner, and covered it with boxes. There. Problem solved. There was no time to make me do anything else, the show was the next day. WIN.
When it came time to get dressed for said show, I made all desperate and worried to Home Ec Bitch, telling her I searched EVERYWHERE and could not find my shirt and that someone must've STOLEN IT. Livid, she went with me to the room, leaving the stage area where the show was almost ready to go on, girls and guys dressed in their various Home Ec finery. We tore the room apart, me cleverly being the one to "look" in the closet. No shirt, AWWWW. She said nothing further, and I sat in the audience, pleased as could be.
She flunked me. It was the only F grade I ever got. AND SO WORTH IT! HAH!